


Begin Again

by 221BJen (jcoz1701)



Series: Twelve In Twelve 2016 [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use Mentioned, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 12:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6052348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jcoz1701/pseuds/221BJen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the February prompt for Twelve in Twelve 2016 - Second Chances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Begin Again

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you as always to Callie4180, EnduringChill and gowerstreet!

_ The car’s too small _ , John thought hysterically,  _ where are we all going to sit? _ Mycroft was on his mobile, barking orders, and all John could concentrate on was the seating arrangement for the ride to- Where? Baker Street? A hospital? 

_ Take care of him. _

He glanced at Sherlock and felt his knees wobble. The reason the car was too small was because  _ Sherlock wasn’t supposed to be here _ . He was supposed to be on a plane, flying off somewhere to pay for his crime. 

Without John. 

He felt Mary’s hand on his arm and fought the urge to jerk away. It wasn’t the first time. He went through fits and starts of not wanting her to touch him; then he would reconcile within himself that this was it, this was his life now, and he better bloody well get used to it. So this time he allowed the small touch while he breathed in and out and contemplated the size of the car. 

His fixation on car size was short-lived when a second non-descript black saloon pulled up on the tarmac. One look at Sherlock’s clammy face and the slight sway to his stance made up John’s mind. Wherever Sherlock was going, so was he. He pulled away from Mary’s light grip and stepped toward Sherlock, surreptitiously checking his pupils and counting the heartbeats through the visibly fluttering pulse in his throat. 

Pupils: Still dilated more than usual but not alarmingly so. Pulse: Faster than he’d like.

They needed to get somewhere so that John could assess him properly. He knew it would be futile to try and get him to actually go to hospital, so Baker Street it would be. And he didn’t want Mary there. At all. He finally found his voice.

“Mycroft, can you have a car take Mary home?” He ignored her sound of protest and turned to Sherlock, speaking as if he wasn’t waiting for him to keel over at any moment. “Baker Street?”

Sherlock nodded, and John could swear there was shame written across his face. It was probably just the drugs, he thought. He escorted Mary to the car that had just arrived and bundled her into it, away from Sherlock and whatever was going on with this new Moriarty threat. He ducked her attempt to kiss his cheek and squeezed her hand instead. “I’ll call you later,” he said. She gave him a searching look as he shut the door, but he paid it no attention. 

\--

The car ride back to Baker Street was fraught with uncomfortable silence and tension coming from all directions. Mycroft’s disapproval and disappointment and John’s scrutiny right beside him had Sherlock feigning sleep. John didn’t buy it for a second and watched him closely for any sign of, well, anything. He’d had some experience with drug overdoses in the past and Lord knows he had dealt with his sister’s drunken arse more times than he could count, but this was Sherlock. Sherlock had done this to himself on or just before getting on a plane that was carrying him away to do god knows what. 

That’s what John couldn’t wrap his head around. Why? He’d thought that Sherlock was done with all that after what happened with the Magnussen case and- And Mary. The week that he’d spent with her, waiting to hear what was going to happen to Sherlock, had been terrible. They hadn’t argued or done anything dramatic, but it hadn’t been good. 

Mary had already started her maternity leave, so she was there in the morning when he got up. He went to work because he couldn’t stand the thought of sitting in their flat all day with her, knowing that she had never apologized, had never said anything as simple as  _ I’m sorry _ . The entire bloody mess was on her shoulders and she just wouldn’t admit that she had been  _ wrong. _

Nights were the worst. His nightmares had come back full force and he found himself getting up in the middle of the night, watching bad telly until he fell into uneasy sleep on the sofa. He hadn’t shared a bed with Mary for an entire night since the night Sherlock was shot. Since  _ she _ had shot him. 

John drew in a shaky breath. Sherlock had died on the table. There was no denying it, he had seen the reports. His left hand spasmed and he clenched it into a fist before stretching out his fingers to ease the tension. He saw a small movement out of the corner of his eye and realized that Sherlock was staring at that hand and its betrayal. John looked out the window to stop himself from reaching over and checking Sherlock’s pulse. 

\--

Sherlock got out of the car on his own but faltered on the steps leading up to the flat. John was quick to get an arm around him to steady him, aware of Mycroft’s gaze the entire time. They all made it to the sitting room and John steered Sherlock away from his chair in favor of his bedroom. 

“I’m fine, John. We need to-”

“No.” John’s voice was low and firm. “No, we absolutely do not. You are going to change into something more comfortable and go to bed. No excuses.”

“But-”

John gently guided Sherlock to sit on the edge of the bed and did something that he’d never done before. He cupped a hand under Sherlock’s chin, forcing him to look at him with his glassy and still dilated eyes. “Sherlock Holmes, you will listen to me and do as I say. I am angry beyond words right now, but my first priority is to make sure that you don’t die on me.” John closed his eyes and he could feel the slight tremor in the hand that held Sherlock in place. “Not again.” He took a deep breath and looked Sherlock in the eye. “You are going to change clothes while I go and have a chat with your brother, understand?”

Sherlock pulled away from his grasp and dropped his eyes, nodding in acquiescence. John turned and walked back out to the sitting room to find Mycroft standing in the middle of the room, umbrella still in hand. “You have the list?”

Mycroft studied him for a moment. “I can have someone come and do this for you, John.” He paused, searching for the words. “It was unfair of me to ask you when you have your own problems to sort out at home.”

“My  _ problems _ led to where we are now, so no thank you.” John looked at him expectantly. “The list?”

Mycroft reached into a pocket and pulled out a small notebook. The piece of paper had been torn into pieces but John was easily able to make out everything that was listed. It made his skin crawl. Cocaine was listed twice and underlined the second time. That explained the rapid pulse more than anything.  

“Regardless, I can provide the necessary care if needed.” Mycroft studied the floor. “Just say the word.”

John thought about it. Thought about someone else trying to deal with a detoxing Sherlock. The man was difficult enough when he had a cold, much less trying to rid himself of the poison that he had pumped into his veins. The answer was disturbingly simple.

“No, I’ve got him.” He cleared his throat. “Got it, I mean. I could use some help on supplies, if you don’t mind.”

Mycroft gave him a tight smile. “Of course. Just text with anything that you need and it shall be provided.” He turned, as if to leave, but paused instead, his back still to John. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” John felt like they had struck some sort of agreement in that moment, one that was up to him to fulfill. He waited until Mycroft had let himself out before going back to Sherlock.

Sherlock was so still under the covers that John had to watch him for a few heart-pounding moments just make sure that he was breathing. The reassuring rise and fall of his chest was a relief, and John couldn’t help but reach out to brush away an errant curl in the guise of checking to make sure there was no fever. 

He picked up Sherlock’s wooden side chair and placed it next to the bed to begin his vigil. John studied Sherlock’s face, lax in sleep. He looked so young like this, and John could imagine the impetuous young man that had driven his brother insane with concern. It was his turn to worry now. 

Sherlock had done things to keep him safe, and to give him what he thought he wanted. But now John realized that they’d both been mistaken. Quiet domesticity with Mary might have been acceptable if she hadn’t turned out to be an international assassin, but now it was just too much. He had tried and failed. What she had done was unforgivable. He would do what needed to be done for the baby, their baby, but as for the marriage and Mary, it was over.

This was what he wanted. Baker Street with Sherlock, and mad cases and who knows what else. He looked at the man before him and, as angry as he was for what Sherlock had done, he knew it would be forgiven. And it would never happen again.

It would be a second chance for both of them and John, for one, wasn’t going to squander it.


End file.
